The Wand of Flamel
by hudm
Summary: Mr. and Mrs. Worth, of Godric's Hollow, England, were proud to say that they were perfectly magical, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything Dark or dangerous. Until Alec.
1. Prologue

_April 16, 1992_

"It's different this time, Perenelle. This isn't the Stone. I can't let you help."

"I don't think you understand. Either I help you, or I leave you to play with your little alchemy set."

Nicolas was sorry to say that he had to think about this for a moment, and even sorrier about his horrid decision. But this was more important than the Stone, because it would change _all_ of wizarding history. Not just his.

"You can't help. This is something _I_ have to do."

And just like that, Nicolas Flamel lost his wife.

_June 5, 1992_

The potion was almost ready. There was just one last ingredient, one last material needed. Flamel reached for his wand and—

_Knock, knock, knock._

"It's me, Nicolas. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. This is very important; it's about the Stone."

Reluctantly, Nicolas stood up, dropped his wand, and headed towards the door. It was still open, as if Perenelle had only just left. Albus' twinkling eyes stared back at him, piercing, caring, cautious and open to anything. The old warlock allowed himself inside, closed the door for Nicolas, and sat down on a cushy armchair—the very one that Nicolas' wife had always sat in. The alchemist held back his tears.

"Okay then, you old rat," Nicolas began, "why is it that you decided to come barging into my house?" He had not been able to see the reaction of the potion, and so had no idea whether or not it had worked.

"So you haven't read the Daily Prophet yet? Here, take a look," Dumbledore replied. Nicolas grabbed the paper and stared at the front page. It read:

**Philosopher's Stone to be Destroyed**

Nicolas Flamel, creator of the famed Philosopher's Stone, is going to have a little chat with Albus Dumbledore today about the destruction of the Stone.

Not even a year ago, the Stone was hidden in a chamber at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Even though it was under heavy protection, one of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers managed to get a hold of it. If not for Harry Potter, the perpetrator would have succeeded.

Harry stopped the man, who happens to be Professor Quirrel, by unknown means. The stone was recovered. Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and also Order of Merlin, First Class and Grand Sorcerer; Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards; and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, believes that the Stone would be better off destroyed, so that no more trouble could become of it. Some believe that Dumbledore may have more reasons behind the destruction of the Stone, but he refuses to release any more information on the subject.

The Philosopher's Stone is an alchemic stone with the ability to (cont. p7)

Nicolas set the paper down. "Is You-Know-Who behind this?" he asked.

"Yes. He is behind this." Dumbledore's face seemed to grow more wrinkles as he said this, and the stress was reflected in his bright blue eyes.

"And you want me to destroy the Stone?" Flamel questioned. Dumbledore nodded.

"Voldemort will not stop until he has a body. And then destruction will reign again. I understand that you don't want that on your shoulders, that your creation brought him back?"

Nicolas sighed. He saw all the logic behind this. Standing up, he turned back to the cauldron at the end of the room. A single manticore hair floated at the top of a light brown liquid. But just as Nicolas saw it, the hair burned away. The cauldron was small, and there couldn't be more than a tablespoon of the potion in there. He plucked it off of its stand and poured it into a small flask, Dumbledore's eyes stabbing his back.

"What is that, Nicolas?" Dumbledore asked calmly, and yet there was a certain edge in his voice. A cautious one, and a bit of frustration thrown in for good measure.

"My latest creation," Nicolas replied, but luckily saw Dumbledore's face change. "No, no, nothing _Voldemort_ can use. This one's…this one's a little different. And if it doesn't work, I won't be there to see the results. I'll have died long before."

"Shall I destroy the Stone, then?"

"Yes. I have enough Elixir, and so does my wife."

"Then please, old friend, go to St. Mungo's. There's a bed there waiting for you.

And then Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore disapparated.

_June 8, 1992_

Nicolas Flamel arrived at St. Mungo's. He saw the smallest of babies on the way up, and as he passed the newborn he took out his smallest flask. A brown potion fell onto the boy's arm, and Nicolas continued on his way.


	2. The Alley

Godric's Hollow, on average, had the village disposition of being strange. Besides the colored lights that sometimes flashed in people's windows, owls would commonly fly in and out of houses with pieces of parchment—yes, that nasty old kind of paper—tied to their feet. One time there was such a bright green flash that nobody could see for a second, and, by the time anyone was un-blinded, one of the cottages had been perfectly blown apart.

Of course, anytime any of the muggles of the village noticed one of these magical occurrences, they were obliviated.

The Worths moved into Godric's Hollow shortly before their son was born. Alec Worth was your average young wizard: not too short nor tall, not too scrawny nor fat. At the age of seven, when he'd first started showing his magic, his accidental spells were just a bit more powerful than most.

Alec smoothed his brown hair, picked himself off his bed, and yawned. Then he remembered just what day it was.

Quick as a sphinx—though, he wasn't quite sure how fast a sphinx could move—Alec was dressed and downstairs. Breakfast was on the table, the bacon still sizzling and the eggs still warm. He gulped them down and hurried to the fireplace, all much to his parents' surprise.

"Sorry Alec, we can't take the floo network this time. The Ministry was worried that too many people would be storming fireplaces, seeing what day it is," his father said, ruffling the boy's hair.

"Side-Along apparition?" Alec questioned hopefully, though he knew what his mother would say.

"No, honey," his mother denied, appearing just behind him. "Too much risk of splinching. And we couldn't get any portkeys approved. I feel sorry for the workers of The Leaky Cauldron today. Though, I suppose they'll all be getting enough business."

"We can't drive can we? It'll take hours," the boy replied.

"I suppose we'll have to spend quite a long time in Diagon Alley then," his mother answered. They had all started moving around and collecting things. "Besides, we're going up to Bristol first. Alivan is up there, and he hasn't yet gotten a spot in the Alley."

It was, indeed, a very long drive.

Alivan's shop in Bristol was a very small one, or so it appeared. He was, of course, a wandmaker, and the only good one left in England (besides Ollivander, but that old warlock refused to do so much as cut wood). Alec walked in by himself; his parents felt that it would be better if he was alone when his wand was chosen.

The wandmaker himself stood behind the counter. He was not old, as one would expect. He seemed about thirty-five, with small glasses resting upon his nose and a box in his hand. Alivan looked upward for a moment, whistled a tune, and set the box down on the counter. He gazed at Alec and then turned to the side and knocked on a wooden door: the storage room.

"Hello, young one. I expect you're looking for a wand?" Alivan asked calmly.

"Yes, sir. My first time."

"Well, then, let's find you one to start." The wandmaker picked up the box he'd just been holding. "This one's brand new; just finished it yesterday. Ash, thirteen inches, griffin claw. That's a powerful wand, that is."

Alec reached for the wand, but it was quickly thrust away from his hand. "What's this about?" he asked, surprise in his voice. He'd never heard of such a thing happening.

"Not to worry. Strange things always happen when one finds the wrong wand." Alivan answered, though he looked confused just the same. "Let's see, I'll find just the opposite back here." The man disappeared into the storage room. Alec glimpsed shelves of wand boxes, but then the door shut. When Alivan returned, he was carrying about ten more boxes. He set them all on the counter.

The small Worth boy would have thought it fun if he could have held one of the wands. But each and every time that he reached for a wand, it rolled away, or flew through the air, or drilled itself towards the ground. It wasn't until after Alivan had taken several trips back and forth to the storage room that one finally allowed itself to rest in the boy's hand. It was a cause for great celebration.

"Oak, twelve inches, manticore hair core. I really do hope this one works," the wandmaker sighed. Obviously he had never had so much trouble with one person.

The wand was quite sturdy in his hand. Resting in Alec's palm, it seemed to fit perfectly. It was just the right size. And the amazing thing was the power that seemed to come from it. Up through his whole arm was a certain energy that erased all doubts. He swung the wand, and golden sparks flew to the air. The show made him chuckle.

"I think, Mr. Alivan," Alec said, "that this should be my wand."

"I think so too. That's seven galleons, no bargains."

Alec paid the money and hopped back in the car. His parents were smiling at him, though he could tell that they were a little put off by the extensive time it had taken. He explained the whole ordeal to them on their way to London and, finally, The Leaky Cauldron. The barman tried to greet them as they walked in, but the place was so packed that it was hard enough to see him, much less hear him. The family bumbled along with the pack. Alec could not imagine what it must be down in the Alley; it must be filled.

In all of his life, Alec had been to Diagon Alley three times. All three times it had been a small street, with small little shops along the sides. This time, however, it was not a small street with small shops. It was enormous. The path, which before could have held about four wizards across, could now hold nearly twelve. Alec suspected that the Ministry of Magic had put extension spells across the street in light of the holiday that the thirty-first of July had become.

Very few people knew that the day was really Harry Potter's Birthday. It had become such an important day for Diagon Alley when the shop owners were finally able to return. They needed something to get people to come back—nearly everybody was scared that remaining Death Eaters were going to come back and attack. Because July thirty-first was the first time that Harry Potter had ever been to the Alley, they saw it as a means for certain celebration.

Now, with the extension spells, the street was not as full of people as Alec had expected. Small groups of witches and wizards strolled around looking in shop windows. Alec spotted a boy called Devan at the Ice Cream Parlor and hurried towards him; Devan also lived in Godric's Hollow.

The day at the Alley was worth it. Alec managed to get everything on his school list—robes, books, a cauldron—and even a things from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes (Alec had heard that there were once two Weasleys, but now there was only one, who was missing an ear. Alec suspected that he had tested one too many things).

When the family finally managed to get home, they were exhausted. Alec was ready to get to Hogwarts.


End file.
